


all the rivers are bending

by poppyseedheart



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Banter, Christmas, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 08:06:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17220125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppyseedheart/pseuds/poppyseedheart
Summary: “What, you gonna brave the rain and show up here? Your limbs are too long, you collect way more water than the average person. Plus, the roads are dangerous.” He tries to be convincing, be has no idea how it’s landing, or if he wants to be convincing or not.Outside, the rain keeps slamming into the roof, the walls, the glass. Over the line, compressed and warm, Shane hums opaquely. “Maybe if the rain lightens up a little. It’s too late to go home for you now, isn’t it?”It’s Christmas Eve, nearly ten in the evening. The forecast predicts rain heavy enough to prohibit driving for the next two and a half days. “Yeah,” says Ryan quietly.





	all the rivers are bending

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, I am here with another BFU fic! It's been forever since I've finished something for these two, but I have to give the biggest shoutout of love and adoration to the BFU Writers [and artists now, hell yeah] Server. Y'all are the apples of my eye <3
> 
> Title from "Rain" by Passion Pit, a song that I love very much.
> 
> No beta, so all mistakes are most definitively mine. Enjoy!

The holidays are a time to be with family. Ryan thinks this as he strings a garland atop the windowsill in his apartment, christmas lights behind him flickering distractingly since the plug is only halfway into the outlet. There’s a lone gift under the tree, the one that made it in the mail in time before the freak flash flood that stranded him inside here, and that’s all. No cinnamon pastry baking in the oven, no kids running around and banging into his knees, no dogs barking cheerfully at every other person walking outside.

Ryan sighs and draws the curtain. The rain outside thuds incessantly at the windowpane like a sickness.

As he sets about making dinner, his phone buzzes on the counter.

_Shane: [music emoji] i’m dreaaaaaming of a wet christmas [music emoji]_

Ryan rolls his eyes so spectacularly he can hear his mother’s voice in his head warning him he’ll get stuck like that. He dithers over a reply for a moment before just picking up the phone and dialing.

“Hey,” says Shane, sounding pleasantly surprised. “‘Sup?”

“‘Sup,” echoes Ryan, a little mocking, but there’s no heat in it. “I’m bored and this rain sucks.”

Shane laughs. “All right, mister California. Try a blizzard. Once your eyebrows have frozen off, you’ll never complain about a little drizzle again.”

“Blizzard or not, I’m going stir crazy in here alone.”

A pause. A heavy, heavy pause.

Shane’s voice tilts lower, almost a joke but not quite. “Is that a hint?”

“What, you gonna brave the rain and show up here? Your limbs are too long, you collect way more water than the average person. Plus, the roads are dangerous.” He tries to be convincing, be has no idea how it’s landing, or if he wants to be convincing or not.

Outside, the rain keeps slamming into the roof, the walls, the glass. Over the line, compressed and warm, Shane hums opaquely. “Maybe if the rain lightens up a little. It’s too late to go home for you now, isn’t it?”

It’s Christmas Eve, nearly ten in the evening. The forecast predicts rain heavy enough to prohibit driving for the next two and a half days. “Yeah,” says Ryan quietly. 

“Well,” says Shane, “tell me about the Golden State killer or something.”

Ryan snorts. “Really? You want to hear about the Golden State killer? From me?”

“Sure,” answers Shane, grandiose, a performer even at a time like this, and it’s enough to tug a smile from Ryan.

“Your funeral,” says Ryan, and begins to talk.

/

An hour and a half later, he and Shane hang up, and Ryan looks blankly at the assortment of sad, wilting leafy greens that he’d left outside of the fridge near the hot stove and not touched for the duration of the phone call.

Still mostly on autopilot, weight in his chest, he scoops up the mess and deposits it in the trash can, choosing instead to set a pot to boil and pull out his stash of emergency ramen from the bottom shelf of the cabinet.

They’d gotten an inkling that there would be floods the night before, but Ryan had been working and he was sure he’d be able to head home before it got too bad. And then it had been downpour, dry streets filling like a bathtub or a swimming pool, and no one was getting anywhere at all. He’d spent three hours on FaceTime with his family earlier, apologizing and promising to come back as soon as he could. 

And it’s not like they’re far away, which is the kicker. Ryan is stranded a short drive from home, which feels monumentally unfair. A flight, he’d maybe understand, but a stone’s throw? It sucks.

He dumps the noodle chunk into the hot water and pokes at it forlornly with his wooden spoon. Jingle all the fuckin’ way.

/

The knock at the door is a surprise. Even more of a surprise is the sight of an utterly, soppingly wet Shane smiling ruefully on the other side of it. 

“What,” says Ryan flatly, ushering Shane in and wincing as the floor begins to soak through around him, “are you doing here?”

“Oh, I was in the neighborhood.”

Ryan rolls his eyes. “The flood warnings are like, red level, or whatever. The streets are impossible to drive on.”

Shane takes off his coat, holding it awkwardly as he seems to notice, for the first time since he walked in, exactly how much water he’s shedding everywhere. “Whoops,” he says, pretty cavalierly if you ask Ryan, and drapes it over the back of a kitchen chair.

It continues dripping onto the laminate flooring. “You’re insane,” says Ryan, because it’s what he’s thinking, and then, “seriously, though, how did you not wreck your car? Or did you?”

“I didn’t drive,” says Shane, “I ran.”

“You ran,” Ryan repeats blankly.

“Yep.”

“You— what?”

Now it’s Shane’s turn to roll his eyes. As Ryan gets a better look at him, he realizes that Shane does look tired, worn out in a way that could reflect his run (which must have taken at least forty-five minutes, Jesus Christ) or that could reflect something else entirely. “I threw on some shoes and a coat and I tried to stay on high ground. And then it was the usual—left foot, right foot, left foot, jump over the franken-river that sprouted from the gutter—”

Ryan splutters. “No, asshole, I know what running is. I’m trying to figure out why you would come here.”

For the first time, Shane’s cocky smile falters. “I mean, didn’t seem like either of us wanted to spend Christmas alone.”

“Well, no, but…”

“But what?” 

Ryan huffs, more frustrated with himself than with Shane. This is better than the alternative—a lot better, in fact—but he can’t help but feel like he’s cheating, or something. Like if Shane can make it here, then why can’t Ryan just run home and actually be with his family? 

He has a pile of gifts in the trunk of his car that are going to just sit there unless the rain stops, and it won’t, and— it isn’t fair, is the crux of it. “I’m thinking like a child,” Ryan admits. “How I’m mad that none of this is fair, and why is it happening on Christmas, the whole shebang.”

“Ah, yes, ye ole shebang.”

Ryan walks over to the linen closet and grabs a towel before lobbing it at Shane’s head. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.” He’s too tired to keep up with this banter, can barely bring himself to start mopping up the water on the ground near the entryway where Shane is still standing, a little awkward now that he seems to have picked up some of Ryan’s genuinely bad mood.

Shane dries off enough that he’s not dripping anymore and walks further into the apartment. “Mind if I grab a shower?” he asks. “And maybe any clothes you have that could reasonably cover my privates? I was going to bring some stuff, but the weather’s not exactly conducive to transporting things.”

“I’ll get you some sweats,” says Ryan, following Shane into his bedroom. Shane beelines for the bathroom, fiddling a bit before he figures out the shower head and then shutting the door behind him.

Ryan sighs, taking a few breaths. He was expecting to watch some Netflix and steep in his own self-pity tonight, not whatever this is shaping up to be.

As an homage to some of the bitterness still pooled in his stomach, he grabs a pair of sweatpants that are short even on him, but big enough around the waist to technically meet Shane’s requirements. Technically. He drapes them across his bed and then goes back into the kitchen to make some hot chocolate and wait for Shane to be done.

It’s only after the milk is hot enough that he can add the chocolate that Ryan realizes it’s midnight.

He’s sipping from his own mug when Shane walks out, looking hilariously unimpressed in a severely undersized pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt he must have poached from Ryan’s dresser drawers. “Thanks,” he says drily, lifting up one leg and watching the pants slide even further up his shin.

“Merry Christmas,” answers Ryan. He feels more cheerful now, and mellower after getting some time alone and getting some chocolate in him. “Have some cocoa, on the house.”

Shane snorts. “Do you usually charge people?”

“No,” answers Ryan, taking another sip of his. It’s creamy, and the hint of spice just warms him up more. “I should, though.”

Shane takes a drink and makes an appreciative sound. “Maybe you should,” he agrees, eyes slipping half-shut, like a particularly contented cat’s. “So, feeling less pissed off at the world?”

The rain still coming down in sheets has the effect of making the apartment feel cozier now that Ryan has stopped hating it quite so virulently. “I think so, yeah.”

“Nice.”

“I guess me talking for over an hour about the golden state killer wasn’t enough to make you want to never see me again, either. Since you’re here now,” Ryan tacks on awkwardly, thinking about how much he’d rambled and how Shane had interjected only to shoot down some of the more absurd conspiracy theories Ryan had shared.

Like, yeah, Ryan talks about true crime and the supernatural for a living, but playing the believer isn’t always easy, especially when it’s true. People love to call him a moron on the internet, and they especially love to tell him that he must be pretending to still be committed to his side after a few episodes with no concrete evidence. Never mind that they’ve had some amazing EVPs, or ridiculous conversations with the spirit box, or even that Ryan literally saw a full-bodied apparition. He’s always known that it would be an uphill battle, but it’s hard to keep going with the same kind of fierce determination as when he started when he can expect to be trivialized and disregarded so constantly by people that call themselves his fans.

Really, it’s only for Shane’s presence that the show continues to be fun. Amidst the long shoot days (and nights), the harsh internet comments, and the pressure to keep up a really successful show, Shane has been sort of a rock for Ryan. He doesn’t belittle Ryan, and the making fun they do goes both ways. In the end, they’re friends even if they don’t see eye to eye, and that’s something Ryan tries not to take for granted.

So of course, when he gets all nervous and—ugh, vulnerable, Shane softens. “It was cool,” he says. “We all have our niches. Mine is fascinating and wonderful historical events. Yours is creepy serial killers. It’s great.”

Despite his sardonic tone, Ryan can tell he means it. “Super great.”

“You bet.”

Ryan feels a smile get tugged from him. “Whatever. Did you have any, like, holiday traditions you wanted to do tonight?”

“Oh, fun. None that I can think of off of the top of my head, though, unless you count my brother getting drunk enough to yell about sports. That’s one I’d rather skip, honestly.”

Ryan laughs. “I could totally do that. Recreate some of that Madej family magic.”

“I’ll pass, thanks. Do you have any?”

“We open gifts in the evening, usually. And then Christmas day we just hang out and then do a fancy meal in the afternoon.”

Shane lights up. “Oh! You reminded me.” He walks away from Ryan, back into Ryan’s bedroom, and leaves him standing there flummoxed as to what Shane could possibly be doing in there.

“Hey,” calls Ryan, confused but not worried enough to pursue yet, “are you robbing me? The fuck, dude?”

He can hear Shane’s laughter as the other man walks back, holding a tiny, waterlogged present with a wilting bow on top. “I couldn’t bring a lot, but I wedged this under my coat as I was running here. It slowed me down a little,” he continues, laughter now tilting self-conscious, “but I wanted to bring it, so. Here.” He holds the gift out with both hands, made funnier by the fact that it fits between his palms, but Ryan’s not laughing now.

“You really didn’t have to—”

“Just open it,” interrupts Shane. “It’s rude to leave a lady waiting, you know.”

“You’re not a—” starts Ryan, but he thinks better of it. “Okay, fine, one second.”

The gift is so small that he fumbles trying to find the edge of the paper, peeling off some tape and fishing around for the right spot to tear from. He finds it and pulls, and a small metal object spills out from its wrappings. Ryan holds it up to the light to see what it is.

It’s a small, silver keychain in the shape of a ghost, with big eyes and the classic flowy-sheet bottom. On the ring, there’s a key.

He looks up at Shane curiously. “What does this open? Your heart?” It’s a poor attempt at a joke, because Ryan’s heart is beating pretty quickly at this point.

“It’s to my apartment, Ryan. You’re over there enough, it seemed stupid for you to not have one.”

“Oh,” says Ryan.

A moment passes in silence. Shane clears his throat. “Anyway! Fire up Netflix, let’s ring in Christmas with some murder docs or something.”

“Wait, wait, hold on,” says Ryan. “Give me a second, dude, jeez.”

“It’s not a big deal!”

Ryan snorts. “Yeah, obviously you don’t care at all. Listen— thank you. I just feel bad I don’t have anything for you.”

Shane waves a hand vaguely. “It’s not a big deal,” he repeats, this time with feeling. “I just wanted you to have it.”

There’s a nervousness about Shane that amuses Ryan to no end. Now that his own anxieties about the day have more or less passed, he finds himself happy to just watch Shane simmer down, see him fidget with the hem of the too-short shirt he’s wearing and shift from foot to foot.

“Thank you,” says Ryan again. “Seriously, chill. Really, you’ve messed up, because I’m gonna be showing up in your apartment at random hours all the time now.”

“Your apartment isn’t haunted,” Shane cuts in, with the familiarity of a well-worn argument.

“It could be! But yours seems fine.”

“It’s a new complex. Also, ghosts aren’t real.”

Ryan puts a hand to his chest. “Oof, that hurts.”

The line of Shane’s smile is looser, easier. “Netflix, though?”

“Sure, big man.” Ryan heads over to the couch, snagging his hot chocolate from the counter on the way, and turns on the television.

To his left, Shane sits too, folding up his long legs and training his attention the options that come up when Ryan types “Murder” into the search bar. Both of them, by this point, are plenty familiar with most of these shows, but that won’t stop them. This is, like, research for work. Or something. Definitely counts as business, even if it’s after midnight on Christmas and Ryan’s focus is mostly trained on not blushing.

They’re friends. It’s fine. The key to Shane’s apartment sits heavy in his pocket.

“Cold Justice?” suggests Ryan.

“Sure,” says Shane.

Ryan starts up the program, which he’s already seen once through, and thinks and doesn’t think about the space between them.

/

In the morning, it’s quiet, and the sunlight streaming in weakly through the window is enough to wake Ryan over an hour before his alarm was set.

At his side, Shane is still asleep, mouth softly parted. They’d decided to just share the bed, since Shane doesn’t quite fit on Ryan’s couch on account of his being too tall to comfortably exist as a human being in most cases. Ryan’s heart is warm. He wonders if this will start to happen more often, if they’re reaching toward something new and hopeful, and thinks _maybe. Yeah, maybe._

It takes another few seconds for him to realize that the quiet and sunlight means that, improbably, the rain has stopped. In a few minutes, he’ll grab his phone and check to see when exactly it stopped, and if it’s safe to drive. In a few minutes, he’ll wake Shane up, and they’ll make breakfast together and maybe throw on another Cold Justice episode, just for kicks.

 _In a few minutes_ , he promises himself, and settles back in under the warmth of the covers to enjoy the moment for what it is.


End file.
